


Chimeric

by hitchhikingbabeh



Category: K-pop, SHINee
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitchhikingbabeh/pseuds/hitchhikingbabeh





	Chimeric

_04\. choi minho; silent need[x](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DZBQQGqnF1zc&t=Y2ZjYjVkZDIxYmJjNjg3MmRkODRlMDhkNTYwNjg4MTljZDRkNjgyNixTSXBxaUtkYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AcXtpvFymmD9Dd4fNv0MUqQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fhitchhikingbabeh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F150954440798%2Fchimeric-m&m=1)_

 

> _[s](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DdAlRXC19hmE&t=NDU0MzhiNzkzZmQ3NDI4YmIyMmQ2ZjE2NTFkMmNkNWQzN2E5YWYyMyxTSXBxaUtkYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AcXtpvFymmD9Dd4fNv0MUqQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fhitchhikingbabeh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F150954440798%2Fchimeric-m&m=1)he’s got a telescopic hallelujah hanging up on the wall_

Two exams, four quizzes and a final presentation make for the perfect recipe to make any college student suicidal, and History of Visual Media Arts is truly shaping up Choi Minho’s totally ‘authentic’ college experience.

Chin up, though. He’s only a part-time student, so he should suffer at least a little bit.

It’s halfway through the semester and today’s the day the professor’s set to announce the details for the final presentation.

“Finally,” the stoic old man finishes up, after declaring the presentation will be worth 40% of the final grade, “this project will be done in groups.”

_Fuck_.

He can’t do groups. It’s not just because of the whole celebrity thing, it’s that he doesn’t have time for groups. He can do individual work perfectly well, and he even prefers it that way because it makes it so he requires a connection only to the professor.

Just then, the old man makes eye contact with Minho, and the look on his face tells him that he won’t be able to weasel out of this one.

Still, Minho keeps hope. This class is seminar size, after all. Maybe the professor would even prefer Minho work alone, since it’s actually pretty unlikely he’ll be able to be here on the day of the final.

The professor starts calling out pairs (and the occasional trio) of students, most of them names Minho is not familiar with or has never heard of before.

He hasn’t made a lot of friends at Konkuk. This is one of the three classes he’s attended personally, because he actually has ambitions related to film and music.

It’s not until class is dismissed (twenty minutes early at that, because the professor wants the groups to actually pair up and get started) that Minho realises his name was never called.

Okay, this is good. He guesses it means he’ll do the thing individually. Hell, maybe he’ll even get away with taping a presentation and sending it from wherever he is.

The group’s schedule is no fucking joke right now, and neither is the production schedule for the two films and the drama he has to start shooting for next month.

But the professor makes eye contact with him again and he knows he’ll never be that lucky. Minho makes a beeline for him, but someone beats him to it.

Someone who, oddly enough, Minho has never seen in this class.

“Professor,” you call out, and your voice is nice and alluring and wow, did he just describe a stranger’s voice as  _alluring_? What in the world—

“Professor!” you repeat, louder, and Minho can hear an accent in your voice but he’s not sure if it’s just the entirely foreign feel of you or a trick of the effects of your perfume on his brain. “I wasn’t assigned a partner.”

“Oh, good, you’re both here,” the professor smiles too widely at the pair of you, and Minho watches as you spare him a sideways glance before returning to the instructor. “Say your greetings, you’ll be seeing a lot of each other for your final.”

And just like that, the man is gone.

Leaving behind the start of a beautiful something Minho doesn’t quite come to terms with, until it snowballs into an avalanche he never had time to prepare for.

 

> _[w](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DQJXtPePfsko&t=NjYzZjI5ZDg2NWI5ZTQxNTMxZTY0N2M2ZDMyMzAwYThlOTdjOTYzZSxTSXBxaUtkYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AcXtpvFymmD9Dd4fNv0MUqQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fhitchhikingbabeh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F150954440798%2Fchimeric-m&m=1)ant to free yourself from your mind?_

In total, you have met Choi Minho in person three times.

The first was when you were assigned as partners. Your conversation lasts the entirety of ten minutes, wherein you are surprised to find out you actually take two of the same courses, and only that makes conversation almost effortless. You spitball topics for the final with him eventually, pick one, and are quickly informed that contacting and seeing each other would be extremely difficult. Minho is very obviously an idol, and as such, a part-time student. He doesn’t have to tell you that he doesn’t have the time or the ability to come and go.

You don’t mind, though, and you think that was the first time you surprised him. “It’s okay,” you tell him, “I’ll be fine even if I just contact you through email, and if it’s really important, through a manager or something. Unless that’s too much trouble.”

It’s not, and that’s probably why Minho easily gives you every manager’s personal phone number and the email address he reserves for friends and family.

The second time you meet him is precisely two weeks later, because he’d missed a ton of class and his only sources to catch up are you or his academic advisor, and the latter was on vacation.

He only agrees to meet when you propose your apartment as a rendezvous, and though you feel your privacy slightly invaded, you can’t help but want to help him out. You had a new draft of slides for the media arts presentation to show him, anyway.

At a quarter to nine, he shows up at your door with dinner and his laptop, and you get to work.

There isn’t much space for discomfort, because Minho is always too invested in work to be anything but pleasant. He’s very glad to realise you’re pretty much the same type of person, but it’s a bit weird to not catch you making heart eyes at him like some girls (and some boys) at school do, that you don’t ask about his job or about his group or about his music or his filmography like other girls and boys and some instructors at school do.

Actually, if your conversation is any indication, he knows more about you than you about him. For one, he knows that you first settled into Seoul by yourself when you started college, that you study animation with a minor in vocal performance, and your conversations have told him that you split your time between school and a job at a small performance academy out in Incheon.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks you at one point from your couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table that centres the room. He looks over at you hesitantly, taking in your figure, seated on the desk against the wall adjacent to him in an oversized sweater and denim shorts, a messy knot atop your head. He eyes you up and down and up one more time because the silence between the two of you is never uncomfortable or awkward but it’s always a little tense, in a way that gives him the kind of anxiety he’s only ever known right before the start of a concert or on the first day of a film or drama shoot and he doesn’t get  _why_. Why do you make him feel like this, and why does he kind of enjoy it?

“Yup,” you answer casually, eyes on your laptop before you turn to your notebook to copy some more notes onto your PPT. It’d be dumb not to know the name, the face, the entertainment repertoire of Choi Minho. The fact that he attended (physically and not) Konkuk University was the first thing you found out on your very first day of school here. That, and that he’s in your year, that he’s even more handsome in person, blah, blah, blah…

“How come you don’t… acknowledge me?”

This time you turn fully towards him, and find him staring directly at the TV hung on the wall opposite him, and it’d be a good cover up if it was actually on. 

“I acknowledge you,” you stifle a laugh before returning to your laptop, “just not as a celebrity. You’re a person, after all. A student. At least when you’re in front of me.”

“And when I’m not?”

“You’re Choi Tenderheart, Choi Frog, designated heart stealer of Hallyu,” you don’t lift your eyes from your keyboard but he can see your cheeks tinted pink and you laugh because you’re embarrassed but you won’t lie to him. “After we met the first time, I think I cried a little. And I’m not that kind of person at all.”

It’s not meant to make him laugh, but he does, anyway, and the sound makes your eyes burn a bit.

“So, are you a fan?”

“Of Choi Tenderheart and Choi Frog? Hell yes. Mostly Choi Frog.”

“And me?”

“Hm,” you turn again to look him in the eyes, and it’s a little invasive but still welcome, “I don’t know yet.”

He laughs again, and in the moment, you don’t think you realise what the burning, the comfort in this atmosphere means.

The third time you meet Choi Minho is two days before your presentation, and it’s pretty impromptu. Minho had landed in Korea from Japan a day early because of a last minute schedule change, and he thought it might be good to meet and run things through with you one last time. Even though you’d done this tirelessly through video calls from his manager’s phone, it starts to really dawn on him that this is worth 40% of his entire grade and he’s not counting on the 10% on attendance for that last report card, so he can’t help but feel like he has to cram.

When he arrives at your apartment, however, he is met with something he definitely does not expect.

“Hello~” you slur at the second syllable and it alerts him that you might be drunk on top of being in a chibi character onesie and just about ready to head for bed. Your eyes scan his black track pants and his matching black v-neck and his bare face and messy hair and your grin widens. “You look especially froggy today!”

What?

“Are you… drunk?”

“It’s my birthday!” your door opens wider and he spots a glass of red wine in your hand, and the colour of the liquid matches the tint on your lips and your cheeks. Your words sound more depressing than you intend them to, and though you’re sure Minho will be completely sold by the smile on your face, something in the pit of your stomach kind of hurts.

“You knew we were meeting for the presentation, though,” he lets himself in before you make any more noise, and slips out of his shoes just as he moves to take the wineglass out of your hand, “why are you drinking when you know we have to practice?”

You scoff. “Minho, we have met a whole three times and you still don’t know a thing about me.”

And the dark-haired man questions himself, too, because you’re pretty out of character right now.

“Don’t you remember? I have a degree in productive procrastination,” you follow him as he naturally walks around toward the desk in your living room. They’re a bit small, the one bedrooms in this building, but you know college students get by in less than this in the city and you find your place cosy as hell.

Minho sits on the rolling chair in front of your desk, hands moving for your laptop to open up your PPT like he lives next door, like he’s lived next door since school started. And you’re not sure how that makes you feel.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better, you know,” he tells you cuttingly, eyes scanning through the slides for any changes. There are, actually, you included some of the bits he added into his part in a file he sent you a few days ago. You watch him with a bashful smile as he registers the new notes, the changes in the layout of the slides, a little touch of why you’re majoring in what you’re majoring in for him to realise that if you slack for five minutes it doesn’t mean you’re about to ruin his grades.

“Also,” you say, suddenly making him snap out of his scrutiny, and you land a thin booklet over your laptop’s keyboard, “I wrote a script.”

“A script?”

“Of what we’ve said during our run throughs. Obviously it’s not meant for you to memorise, but since you’re always so busy, I figured it might come in handy when you’re back from work and want to go over it.”

Minho opens his mouth to say something, a word of thanks or a compliment, but you smile and lean over to move the booklet out of the way and he thinks his breathing isn’t doing so good because his heartbeat is getting erratic and what does this mean? In seconds, you’ve reached the end of the presentation, and a quick click has Minho’s attention back on the screen.

You actually… made an animated caricature of famous Auteur directors, which is what your presentation is on. They’re wiggling across the final slide to say their farewells just as you’re both queued to say your own.

Hell, you even managed to make Quentin Tarantino look cute.

And is that—

“Is that me?”

You laugh, loudly and shamelessly, like you’d just remembered that he was there. “Oh, yeah,” and you think Minho’s blushing and you feel a bit guilty, “I just thought it’d be cute.”

It is pretty endearing, though Minho might not say it out loud. It’s actually quite fitting, the way you drew his build with an all black ensemble and his almost trademark windswept dark hair, how the front of his black t-shirt reads ‘actor, singer, editor’ crossed out while ‘producer, director’ have yet to be.

“How did you know I’d edited stuff?”

You don’t even turn to look at him. “I watched One Fine Day, way back when.”

“R-really?”

In a few seconds you decide you don’t like where this conversation is headed, so you only nod and lean away from the computer to sit on your couch, eventually falling back on it quite dramatically. “Anyway, that’s how I’ve spent my birthday. Are you proud?”

“And grateful,” Minho turns over in the chair to look at you, his expression guilty and pouty and completely disarming, “and sorry. Happy birthday. You should be out there getting drunk with your friends or something.”

“I don’t have friends.”

You’re still so new to Seoul, you haven’t had time to make any.

“Boyfriends?”

“Not yet.”

“Girlfriends?

You laugh. “If only.”

Your only anything in this city is an idol that you can’t be seen anywhere with. Offhandedly, you wonder if that’s why you think about him so often, why you always wonder what he’s doing and if he’s eaten well or slept well, if he hasn’t hurt himself at rehearsals or at performances. Because he’s the only person you have a connection with around here, the only person that’s your age and at a relatively similar place when it comes to mindset.

Minho watches as your eyes flutter shut and he wishes he could read your mind, the mood has turned a bit sour and he wishes he knew how to make you smile again, if there’s anything he can do to make you feel less pathetic.

In moments, he knows exactly what to do.

“Okay,” he starts pointedly, forcing you to look over at him with curiosity, “let’s run through the whole thing one last time.”

“Okay?”

“And then… I think I have a birthday present for you.”

It’s amazing how despite the fact that you’ve downed half a bottle of Malbec, you still sound and move as if you were stone cold sober. Minho watches with wide eyes as you naturally settle into your presenter role, how easily the names of classic and modern Auteur directors roll off your tongue and how you talk about the impact they’ve had on Western visual media arts, it almost makes his segment on the influence of Western Auteurs through the development of modern Asian film culture and tradition sound rather meek.

But he can taste those full marks on his report card already, and that’s probably why he pours you the last of the wine when you’re done, why he watches you sip with the smallest smile, like he’s feeling the wooziness in the drink vicariously through you. He doesn’t get why he finds the sight of you so attractive right now, how you don’t make him feel fluttery inside but warmer, darker, less pure.

“Do you… want some?” his stare is making you really stiff and nervous, though not in an uncomfortable way. It just makes you very aware of the tension that usually flows between you, which is particularly thick with something you can’t quite put your finger on right now.

“You’re… cute,” the look in his eyes is a bit dazed and you can’t tell why and you think that’s not really the word he wanted to use, but you roll your eyes and take another sip of the Argentinian red, deciding not to merit his comment with a response.

“C’mon.”

You whip your head around to find him standing up, gathering his things and getting them inside his backpack. “C’mon where?”

“To your birthday present.”

“What is it?”

He smiles, brilliantly and blindingly, and you blink way too many times in response. “Let’s go for a drive.”

 

> _[u](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DZj7AOYwo8vA&t=NGZkMDQ0YjQyNDk4Zjk3OWE3NDQxOGM5ZTM3NTE3MjYxMjM3YjcwNixTSXBxaUtkYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AcXtpvFymmD9Dd4fNv0MUqQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fhitchhikingbabeh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F150954440798%2Fchimeric-m&m=1)nderneath the slice of silver moon, i want to get to know you soon_

So here you are. In Choi Minho’s car, dressed in a onesie spotted with chibi versions of Studio Ghibli characters (which you made as a birthday present to yourself) and high tops, hood over your head to cover your eyes. Your wineglass has been swapped out for a solo cup, and you think this is the most college-like thing you’ve done since you started out here.

Minho’s still chuckling at your paranoia as you cruise out of the main streets and settle onto a highway.

“Where are we going?” there’s no music playing from his sound system, so as Minho speeds up, you can hear the low thrum of the engine and really register how dark it is outside, how late it probably is.

And then you look past the road in front of you, up to the sky, and you gasp. Minho jumps at the sound, eyes wide on you.

“What? What is it?”

“Minho,” you draw a smile that makes him feel a bit too comfortable, “look.”

He does, he looks over but sees lane lines and pavement. And then you touch his arm, stretching out your free hand to point at the horizon.

“Look at the moon.”

It’s  _huge_ , and beautiful and almost majestic in its fullness. He had no idea the supermoon was tonight, even though Jonghyun had been talking about it nonstop for a month, and the sight makes him feel so enchanted, with the sky and with the road and with you, with the warmth of your scent and the glee in your voice.  

Laughter booms from his chest and he can’t stop it, he won’t stop it even when it escalates in pitch and his eyes are squinting almost by their own accord.

Hell, you’re adorable.

“Get on the backseat.”

“W-why?”

“Do it!” he sounds exasperated for a split second and then he smiles that smile that makes you think that Disney should write a spinoff to The Princess and the Frog and animate the leading amphibian in his image.

That’d be precious.

The thought makes you stall in action, until Minho’s grabbing your shoulder to push it with a whine. “Do it, it’ll be fun, I promise.”

Then you do, after taking off your shoes and unbuckling your seatbelt. It’s not a second after you’ve settled that Minho fumbles about the car, and eventually you hear the unmistakable  _whoosh_  that assures you that you’re about to do something mind-blowing.

Minho just opened up the sunroof.

“What’s your BGM going to be tonight, ma’am?” he asks, his tone shifting to one of an overqualified chauffeur in seconds, and you can only cackle in response, though you know exactly what you want to hear right now.

“You know,” you start, mirroring his tone and demeanour as you get ready to stand, “there’s a number by this idol group called SHINee; it’s off of an album titled Boys Meet U and I think you’ll rather like it.”

“I think I know precisely which one you’re talking about.”

That brilliant piano riff [b](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D0IZITj8ALqE&t=ZDMyYjRkOGMzMDNmNTU4MDMyOTQyZDlmYTliZmM1ZDkzYWEzNzM5MCxTSXBxaUtkYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AcXtpvFymmD9Dd4fNv0MUqQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fhitchhikingbabeh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F150954440798%2Fchimeric-m&m=1)lasts through the vehicle and out the sunroof just as you stand up to look out to the sky, where a giant moon becomes one more in your unconventional party and your heart soars. And you scream along to the words in the song, afraid you might swallow a bug but so strangely happy that even if that did happen, it wouldn’t spoil your night or this moment at all.

Eventually you get comfortable, there are no other cars on the road as far as you can see and even Minho has started to belt along to his lines and you wonder if you’re dreaming. This has to be a dream, there’s no other way he’d do this for you, without a reason or motive, just because you doodled him into your PPT.

You decide that, either way, you don’t mind.

Minho can hear your belting even from inside the car, and he’s rolled his windows down so he can look over at you from the side mirrors every now and then. You look like you’re sixteen but also your age, like you haven’t figured out a lot of stuff but you’re excited to see what tomorrow will bring, like you’re open to anything, like you want to see the whole world before you get too old. 

Like you can’t wait to live out the rest of your days. And Minho thinks he’s smitten.

Eventually, the moon gets too high up to gawk at and Minho can see it as well, so he turns at the nearest roundabout to close out your little adventure. It’s getting to be too cold even in your thick clothes, anyway, so you slither back into the car with a sheepish smile that Minho is all too happy to encounter from his rear view mirror.

“Having fun?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

You smirk and he laughs, patting the front seat loudly for you to come over. “You’re welcome. Were you totally touched? You were, right? Do you understand why people call me Choi Tenderheart now?”

“Because you’re a thoughtful frog, of course,” you tease, and he echoes your words in a mocking tone because he doesn’t like it when you call him froggy nicknames. 

“I’m a thoughtful prince, is what I am. Have you ever met someone as charming? Why do I have to be a frog?”

You shrug, and he sulks into the driver’s seat. “Maybe you shouldn’t have worn that frog onesie for that episode of Hello Baby.”

He side-eyes you because he feels the blush on his cheeks. You must really be a fan if you managed to get through that broadcast, too. That’s so cute.

“You really like me, don’t you?”

“Not  _you_ ,” but you think he knows already that you want to say yes but your pride won’t let you, “I like Minho the Frog Prince. You’re just an intolerable hardass.”

Minho almost slams the breaks, but instead he looks over at you with wide, angry eyes. What did you just call him?

“An intolerable hardass that’s too kind for his own good and wastes his time making a loner feel pretty special. And is also a  _little_  cute.”

“Just a little?” he doesn’t register how quickly his mood changes, how little time it takes for him to relax into his seat and peer at you from the rear view mirror to find you shy and really pretty, and ultimately really grateful.

Your smile is bashful, even as you settle back into the front seat, and already you’re cruising into more familiar roads and you’re scared this dream is now over. All too soon you’re nearing your own neighborhood, though this time, you let Minho inside your garage in case there’s anyone snooping around.

You’re anyways paying for a parking spot you’re not using, because you don’t have enough time or extra capital to invest in a car right now.

“So,” Minho starts as he kills the engine, turning toward you quizzically.

“So,” you echo, and you know he’s about to tell you he has to go because he has ten trillion things to do tomorrow because, you know, he’s a top celebrity and all.

“There are exactly,” Minho hisses and looks at his wristwatch, “two hours and thirty seven minutes ‘till your birthday’s over.”

He wants to stay?

“What do you want to do?”

You turn to look at him like a deer in the headlights, and he can’t help but laugh. 

“What?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Uh, I… we could watch a movie.”

Minho nods. “You know, just the other day I was thinking I really want to watch Princess Mononoke again.”

“Is this also part of your birthday present?”

“I’m a generous guy,” he shrugs, chest swelling with pride and eyes twinkling at your own. “And you know I don’t half-ass anything.”

You can’t figure him out, you’re not sure what his intentions are but you know they’re good, which is why there’s a lilt to your step as you make your way back to your apartment, as you let the pair of you inside and set out snacks, beer and water around your coffee table, as you queue up the movie and watch Minho settle into your couch like he lives in here.

You almost wish that were true.

It’s at his second beer that Minho remembers he’s driving, and it’s the final straw before he gives up on being an idol for the rest of the night. He had an inkling, since he drove out here earlier tonight, because whenever he’s with you he forgets that he’s a celebrity, that he’s a singer, that he’s an actor. With you, he’s just himself, a student full of ambitions and insecurities and the kind of drive he can’t contain, so he channels it on and through others.

And he’s convinced you’re the only one that recognises that, that recongnises him outside of his group, of his family.

As the film settles into the main conflict, he pulls out his phone to text his manager, reiterating that his schedule is empty until the late evening tomorrow and that as such, he’ll be staying in Incheon with his parents tonight.

He doesn’t even know if that’s what he’ll do. Heaven knows he could end up at Changmin hyung’s, too, if he keeps drinking. Whatever happens tonight, he’s just happy to feel as relaxed as he does now. Everyone deserves a night off, anyway. You look like you need a night off, too… maybe even more than he does…

Is it the beer that’s making everything so fuzzy and nice right now? Oh, wait, you just lit a scented candle and it smells like honey and vanilla and jasmine now, that’s really nice.

You don’t think he himself realises when he falls asleep. Honestly, you’d have woken him up, you really would’ve, but you couldn’t help that you followed right behind him when you let your woozy head properly rest against the couch.

He looked too damn cute, anyway.

 

> _[t](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D3_FI6dIKalc&t=OThhYWM2M2M4MDBlOWIyODljNDk1YzgzZWM3YWY0OTQ1OThlYmU0NixTSXBxaUtkYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AcXtpvFymmD9Dd4fNv0MUqQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fhitchhikingbabeh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F150954440798%2Fchimeric-m&m=1)ug of war with my heart and i can’t win_

When you come back to, it’s 5:20AM. You’re still on the couch, your neck hurts like hell and it is definitely way too hot in the apartment right now for you to be wearing this onesie. Your head doesn’t hurt, though, which is a definite plus to check on your book as you rise to change into an oversized t-shirt and brush your teeth because you can still taste the Malbec in the back of your mouth.

Eventually you come to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, and that’s when you let yourself lay eyes on the very passed out prince on your couch.

You’ll never say it out loud but he is so handsome it is physically painful to watch him. You wish you had the strength to carry him to your bed, you don’t think he’s slept so peacefully in a long time and you just want him to be more comfortable.

So you drink your water, two glasses at that, and then go into your closet to fetch extra blankets, even grabbing a pillow from your bed.

You’re even humming lowly to yourself as you trod back to the living room, and it’s not until you’re about a foot from the couch that you look up and see that Choi Minho is very, very awake.

Very attractively dishevelled and very awake, standing by the couch and looking at you like a very tall, very smouldery dream boy.

“Did I wake you?” you ask, and he shakes his head quickly, suddenly alert and aware, looking a mix of embarrassed and nervous. “You can sleep some more if you want! I know what you’re thinking, I must be the world’s worst host, but I brought a blanket and a—  ”

He’s crossing over to your space and you somehow lose complete control of your hands and drop everything on them just as Minho’s hands cradle your face. “A pillow in case you want to… sl-sleep m-more… ”

The silence is everything he needs to close the remaining distance, and you don’t know where the hell this came from but you are surprisingly not surprised. In awe? You’re more in awe than surprised, at the expanse of his hand on your back, the warmth of his neck when your hand lands on its nape.

He tastes like beer and your toothpaste and sleep and he’s so soft, to the point where you almost forget that it’s his burly build crowding you, shielding you, protectively and possessively. He feels like nights at a seashore and also like standing under the blazing summer sun, the kind of heat he gives you is too hot to touch but too addicting to move away. Then the rest of your senses come back, and the sultry movement of his mouth fuses with the tautness of his chest, it’s both welcoming and suffocating and you had no idea anyone could make you feel so much.

The mintiness of your mouth makes him smile minimally, the freshness that comes with the suppleness of you, the softness of your lips is new and it makes him want more. He doesn’t think he can recognise what this is right now, because he feels so safe with his arms around you, so refreshed even despite being caught between the walls of your apartment and not out in the open. And it’s not that you’re outside his universe, it’s not that you’re different from anyone else he’s met, that you’re the only person he’s felt more than he should for. It’s just that this is the first time he feels real with someone outside of his comfort zone, that he feels unrestrained, he feels so alive and so…

Free.

His hands are all too happy to oblige the greed in his bloodstream, and he’s very grateful for you having swapped out of that onesie because he can run his hands down your arms and feel the orbit of your hips on thinner fabric; this much is already sending sparks to his every nerve ending, and he wonders if he should be completely honest with you right now.

“Is this okay?” he exhales whatever breath you hadn’t claimed yet, lips still so close that every syllable vibrates against your own lips. He doesn’t see any other way to do this. Honestly, with no fear. 

“Yes,” you breathe, and he kisses you again immediately and you’re smiling. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that since you got in my car,” he confesses a few moments later, hands snaking around your hips to pull you closer, and you rise to the tips of your toes to catch him by the mouth one more time. He doesn’t have to tell you why he waited, why he hesitated.

You know all too well.

Despite the way he looks, he has enough energy to make you feel like you’re being hit with a thousand thunderbolts; any reciprocity he gets from you sets fires all over him and his hands get busier, hungrier, while always being careful. Eventually, you snake your own hands around his neck and it props him to lift you by the hips, until you can lock your ankles behind his back and get a feeling as to what it really is that he’s been wanting to do since you got on his front seat.

His tongue is devious, wrapping around your own and tickling your lips until his teeth come into the picture, though he never bites properly. It’s always nibbles, tiny teases to make you cup his face, to make you lean for more, and you don’t know what you did to deserve this and wonder if you do deserve it.

“Did I lose my mind yet? Am I hallucinating?” your breathing is laboured as your fingers trace the shape of his mouth, “I should really quit drinking… ”

“You’re adorable,” he laughs instantly, crossing over to your bedroom so easily that it scares you, it scares you because you love it, and you can’t help but smile when he smooches you full on the mouth before laying you down on your pristinely made bed.

Everything that’s happening right now is so… right, but so far-fetched from reality that it doesn’t seem right. Is it right?

Minho wants you? Might even like you? You? Aren’t you kind of plain? At least compared to what he sees on a daily basis while working?

“You’re so beautiful, did you know that? I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time I came here,” it’s like he can hear your doubts, see them in your eyes and read them in the back of your skull. And then he plants another kiss to your lips, though it quickly moves to your jaw and down your neck until he’s straddling your hips and kissing your collarbones.

As if by reflex, your hands card through his hair, holding the strands with barely any force, and when he nips at your clavicle, you whimper, and it makes him smile.

He sits up, though only to tug at your shirt, and you sit up as well to help him help you out of it.

And then his eyes are very, very narrow on yours.

“You were wearing  _this_  under the onesie?”

A blood red lace bustier and a matching thong, yes, and you nod at him without a single hint of shame just as you maneuver him onto his back so you’re the one straddling him. And he lets you simply out of curiosity, he doesn’t understand why he likes you so much, why he can’t take his eyes off of you; he doesn’t know when or how this started but he’s so fucking glad.

“I mean, it was my birthday. I had to look good for it.”

“How do you do that?” he asks, just as you lean over him to grab the hem of his v-neck.

“Do what?”

“That,” he pauses so you can lift the fabric over his head, “that thing you do where you’re the cutest thing one second and then you’re so hot.”

It doesn’t make sense, because it’s not always bedroom eyes, it’s not wear-lingerie-for-myself hot like you are right now. Even earlier, as you gave him the script and showed him the animation, he’d looked up at you and he hadn’t known why he was so attracted to you. Now he can see it, how he’s been absolutely floored by that glint in your eye, the conviction in your voice and the assertion in your every move. All of that combined with the way you look right now… he doesn’t even know where he’ll start.

Now, looking down at his  _ridiculous_  torso, you think he has absolutely no reason to call you hot or cute or anything. Who the fuck has a six pack like this? This isn’t a six pack, his abs are something out of a cartoon and god dammit Choi Minho is  _ridiculous_. And really hot. And also very cute. But mostly ridiculous.

“I should be asking  _you_  that. You’re gorgeous,” you don’t know where to go either, deciding to start at his lips because it’s where you’re most comfortable. Soon enough, though, your hands betray you and veer down when he sits up and his tongue darts out to distract you, when his own hands wander down your spine.

“No, you’re gorgeous.”

Then the curiosity, the wanderlust turns into something hotter, pooling at your lower body but also jolting at your fingers, the tips of your toes and the centre of your chest when he finds the zip at the side of your bustier. You chuckle because you catch him licking his lips as he pulls the garment away from you, his hands instantly at the small of your back to roll you onto it again.

The sun is just starting to peek through your windows, and the way it glints in your eyes, in your hair, makes Minho feel like a fluffy cloud but also like a man starved of touch who’s all too ready to feast.

But he’s still slow, languid as he kisses down your clavicle, careful even as he sucks marks between your breasts. His hands are almost rough on your breasts but they’re gentle, even when he kneads and you moan and his eyes widen. He’s soft even when you encourage him with nimble fingers against your own skin, to touch and to squeeze, when you look him in the eyes to will him to kiss you. You smile when he does, letting your hands roam his back till he has no choice but to settle himself between your legs. 

Surprisingly, all it takes to flip the switch is letting your hands get ahead of you, and Minho hisses when you reach out to clutch the waistband of his track pants and completely incidentally press your hand against the growing tent between his legs.

He rises to his knees to finish the job and you sit up, taking advantage of the moment he’s done kicking the garment off to try and get him on his back again. But Minho chuckles and gets your hands over your head easily, leaning in to kiss your jaw when you whine. You decide to get even, wrestling out of his grip on your hands until one of them goes under his boxers to palm his erection, and he tumbles, leaning his weight on the arm he rests by your head before he breathes sharply in your ear and you shudder.

There is very little self-control left in him, so he doesn’t stop himself from bucking his hips along the movement of your hand, and the sight of his body flexing in accordance has you wondering if you saved the world in a past life. You can barely handle him already, and even despite your current position you feel more dominated than dominant and the burn between your legs is starting to get painful.

He bites the crook of your neck and something in you ignites, your other hand coming around to grab a fistful of his hair to pull at because you’re not feeling nearly as rosy as you did a few minutes ago. Minho grunts, instantly feeling exactly like you do as his own hands trickle down your chest till he gets under your thong to spread the wetness there and tease your core and you’re already seeing stars. You’re not frugal about the noises flooding the base of your throat; you let them all out and quicken the movement of your hand in retaliation. You need to know how close you can get him to the brink before he stops treating you like you’re made of glass.

“Fuck,” he pants in your ear, resting his weight on his elbow after letting out a grunt of your name, flattening the pads of his fingers against your clit before moving in tiny circles because he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make you give in first, and your entire body shakes for a moment when he really gets a taste for it. He takes advantage of how your hand stills, too, moving so it slides out from under his boxers to so he can peer lower and slide two fingers inside you. Helplessly, you moan and call his name.

Equally helplessly, he looks up at you, your eyebrows furrowed and breath hitching in and out from between your teeth and he thinks he might melt.

“Please, Minho,  _please_ ,” you relent, because it hurts everywhere he’s touching you and you want more, because you’re going to go up in flames if he doesn’t take off the rest of his clothes and yours in the next two minutes, and you think you see him smile. His fingers curl up into you just then, and you reflexively buck your hips once, twice, three times. The movement makes him groan, and he moves so he can slide down till his lips are pressed against your hip bones.

Daylight looks pretty on you, it looks pretty on the sweat beading at your hairline and your chest, it looks pretty on this red lace. But the lace looks prettier between his teeth, as he slides the thin fabric down your legs. Obviously, he doesn’t miss the chance to kiss the inside of your thighs on his way back up, and you don’t notice he’s gotten out of bed to discard his underwear until he grabs the back of your knees to lift up as he settles in the space between your legs. Shamelessly, he even pulls at your ankles to bring you close to him, and when you slide towards him and finally feel his sweltering cock against you, you moan.

He still makes you watch as he pulls out a condom, which you assume was another reason why he got off the mattress, and slides it down his length.

“Eager, are we?” he comments at the way you bite on your lower lip, and you can’t help but run your tongue past it right after you hear his voice.

“Can you blame me?” you tell him, breathlessly as your ankles rest on his shoulders, and he smirks, hissing when he accommodates himself in the material and looking at you as he pumps himself some more. He smiles when you squirm, pressing your legs together for some kind of friction, and he doesn’t think he’s laid eyes on a more beautiful sight.

“Are you sorry for calling me a frog?”

“I swear I will never call you anything but Choi Frog if you don’t get inside me right now.”

He can’t not laugh and he give in. He slides in only after you lock eyes with him and hold his gaze, so slowly that you find you can’t breathe until he’s in to the hilt and his hands are circling your thighs till they reach your hipbones before going back up to your ankles. You only remember that your lungs need air when he moves out, and snaps in again, an edge of roughness to his movement, and all you can think about is how much you want to touch him, his chest, his shoulders, his hands.

“Is this what you want?”

A string of curses fall out of your mouth with a strangled  _yes_  as you feel yourself bounce beneath him, escalating to moans when his brows knit together because he’s starting to get properly comfortable. It doesn’t take long for him to set a pace, as downtempo as he can make it because he loves to hear you groan, and he meets your eyes again and you wonder if he has any idea how fantastic your view is right now.

He’s actually thinking the same thing. It’s probably why he speeds up, clutching harder on your ankles until your face contorts into something sinful, almost deadly, and he needs to touch more of you. So he releases one of your legs, bringing the other one up with him as he leans into you and ruts in deeper, harder, and you instantly reach out to clutch at his hair, his neck, his shoulder blades.

“Like this? Does that feel good?”

“You feel so good,” there’s no filtre between your id, your brain and your mouth anymore, “so fucking good.” And you know what your words do to him, you feel it when Minho picks up some more speed, when his head dips in to kiss you, and you bite at his lower lip and he lets out the lowest moan, his hand moving towards your clit and you think you’re about to lose your mind.

“Can I make you feel better?” his voice is husky, low and you never thought he could sound this thick, this sultry, “I want to make you feel so good.” 

He’s not asking, not really, but he still waits for you to moan to start stroking long swipes between your folds, and he’s already so close from all the tension and all the foreplay that he’s not really sure how much longer either of you will hold out.

“ _Please_.” 

So he snaps his hips harder, all too glad to find you meeting him, and he synchronises the movement of his hands with your hips till you’re stringing together whimpers and moans and groans so it almost sounds like singing. And boy, does he now understand why you have a minor in vocal performance, why you work at an academy, because your voice is decadent.

It’s hard for him to tell where you end and he begins, there’s so much soreness in the backs of his thighs and his navel and his forearms and between his legs, and he gasps when you start to clamp around him because it feels like all noise that doesn’t come out of you is fading, that all sights that aren’t your skin or your hair are blurring out, all touch that aren’t your hands on his back and under his jaw don’t exist, so his hands speed up and his hips do, too.

He sucks in a breath at the tightness in his body, and doesn’t realise he’s holding it until he can feel his heart in his chest but also in his throat and the tips of his ears and his temples; you’re so snug, so hot around him that it makes him move even faster when every inch of his body starts to tighten, and you don’t know where the fuck all of his energy comes from but you’re about to scream.

At least until he nears your ear, until he breathes your name once and he bites the curve of your shoulder because he’s pulsating and dilating and he can’t handle it.

The sensations are too strong, too many at once. The bite of his teeth mixed with the rub of his hand on your clit and the burn of his cock stretching your clamping walls, your nails raking marks on his back because his tongue is burning your skin. It all makes your eyes roll to the back of your head for a moment, only a moment because you need to look at him because your entire body is contracting and then it’s filled to the brim with the kind of bliss you’ve never felt. So your hands press at his tailbone to push him into you, closer to you, and he’s panting when he lifts his gaze to meet yours, gulps because you’re close enough to kiss but he’s distracted by your starry eyes.

“Come here,” your voice is thick as ever and he doesn’t think twice before obeying, scurrying over till he can touch his nose to yours. He lets you plant butterfly kisses on his lips, smiling when you hear the chipper of birds outside your window, and you breathe in and out and your hands come back up to hold his face. Then you’re licking fire and bliss down his throat and he gives in entirely, until he moves his hands to hold your own and set them back over your head as he leans in deeper, his movement slowing inside you and eventually coming to a full stop.

“Holy shit, you’re amazing.”

“And you’re so cute,” he sighs, and his voice sounds kind of like it does after a concert, though he didn’t make that much noise, “I could kiss you for days.”

God, this must be a dream.

You dare to believe it’s not, though, because his weight is so real on your body, inside your body, and when you catch Minho’s smile you know this can’t all be in your head. He moves to slip out of you and you whimper and clutch at his hands out of reflex, at a loss for the feeling of fullness for a moment. Then you lie on your side and watch as he walks off to toss the condom at the bin by your vanity, and when he comes back to your side of the bed, you don’t think twice before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him till he’s mirroring your position.

“Please tell me you don’t have to be anywhere today.“

“I had to clear my morning  _and_  afternoon schedule for you,” he says, making a face like it’s the biggest sacrifice he’s ever had to make as he rests his head in your arm, “I don’t do that for just anyone. But I know our circumstances are dire. We have a birthday to belatedly celebrate, a presentation to prepare for… and was that a beanbag I saw out in your living room earlier?”

You nod, your eyes curious on his own because that’s pretty random. He’s been here before, too, and it’s weird he hadn’t noticed it before.

“We need to test something on that beanbag. You know, for science.”

“You’re an arts major.”

“Oh, we are going to make art with it, alright,” he laughs and kisses you one more time, still slow but not guarded, and you know that what will really happen today is that you’ll wash up, eat something, and pass the fuck out again.

“Happy birthday, babe.” It’s belated at this point, but you don’t care because he just called you  _babe_  and you feel like you might cry tears of joy, but instead you smile and let him peck your lips and kiss all over your face before you’re a bit too tired to do anything but scrunch your nose. “Please date me.”

“Hm,” you relax finally, because he brings so much laughter out of you that you can’t feel anything but ecstatic around him, “I’ll have to think about it.”

He knows that’s already a yes.

He just didn’t know it would be a temporary one. 


End file.
